


The Thing About Running

by Flying_Blackbird



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Cardiff, Character Study, Jack probably needs a hug, Loss, Panic Attacks, he's fine, torchwood oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:08:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flying_Blackbird/pseuds/Flying_Blackbird
Summary: The Doctor keeps running, and Jack stays in one place.A city that is drenched in his blood.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	The Thing About Running

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm back in the Torchwood fandom and by back I mean I dived so deep that sea-devils are flirting with me.  
> This Oneshot is a mashup of two solos I posted on my Jack Harkness Twitter RP Account, so I might post more of that in the future!  
> Enjoy x

The city moves slow today.

When he first met the Doctor and traveled with him, Jack never thought much about the way the Timelord tended to up and leave the second everything was over, as soon as order was restored, people saved, the adventure finished.  
He'd admired it, even.  
As Martha put it: _He never stops, he never stays, and he never asks to be thanked._

Even after the Doctor had left him, twice, Jack hadn't thought less of him, so busy saving the universe, jumping from one crisis to the next.

It's just that ... when you choose to stay in one place, things are different. There is one vital difference between the Doctor and Torchwood: _When you stay in one place, you deal with the consequences._

This city stays the same every day.

The same people, the same responsibility. Sure, Torchwood will take time to celebrate when they've saved the day, but they know it can't last. Never does. The morning always comes.

The Doctor, well. He has the luxury of leaving before things get worse again.  
If he were to stick around in any of the places he'd just finished saving, he'd never leave. He'd see that there's _always_ trouble, and that the "status quo" is a fragile, often ridiculous concept.  
Jack has seen dynasties of alien infiltrators come and go in Cardiff.  
He's been the most hated man in the country, he's been a hero, he's been completely invisible.

This city is drenched in Jack's blood.

A rift runs through the very ground which Cardiff's citizens are walking on, and time and space would be torn apart if it weren't for one vital, immortal link holding it together.

But at the end of the day, that's just _one city._ A tiny little place in a tiny little country, on one tiny little planet. Jack's existence is an immovable fact in _all_ of time and space, and he's been out there. He's seen things none of the people around him could even begin to imagine. He's a man out of time, he's the stuff of legend, he's larger than life, he could- he could do so much more. _So Much More._  
But this is-- no, this is what he _chose._

Jack _is_ Torchwood.  
Jack _is_ Cardiff.

The city was built on his grave. That's something for staying humble.

It isn't _home_ , never will be. But keeping the city safe is what he lives for. And you don't leave a place like that behind. Are the people often ungrateful? Yes. Does disaster usually outweigh the victories? Oh, yes. And yet.  
He should cut the Doctor some slack- Jack can't imagine trying to keep a whole universe working, he's busy enough with .. Wales.

They are his people. The overtasked police as well as the tired retail workers, everyone from the corrupt politicians at the top to the homeless people at the bottom. The aliens and the immigrants (and doesn't he belong to both those groups?). Cardiff has a heartbeat, and it beats steadily in his chest.

Of course he misses the stars. Maybe he'll travel again, some day. But what the Tardis is to the Doctor, the hub beneath Roald Dahl plass is to Jack.

He too has blown it up from the inside out. He too has rebuilt it and himself along with it, to carry on.

Only difference is-- Jack doesn't run away.

People come and go.  
His desk has once belonged to Alice Guppy. Gwen's Desk was Suzie's desk, and before that it was Karen's, -Karen who died right over there on the stairs where Alex shot her-, before her it was Lucia's, there was always someone who came next.

Having a team means losing people, often suddenly, without a chance to say goodbye. Holding a friend in his arms as they die has become a _gift_ , a _comfort_ , because even as Jack's heart aches with the loss, at least he gets to be with them before they go where he can't follow.

Karen's body upstairs, James on the floor by the entrance, then Ariana, and Alex over there on the barrel which- seriously, it's still standing there two decades later, just a bit off to the left. Tosh down in the medbay, where Owen wasn't present to save her because his body disintegrated somewhere in the nuclear plant across town.  
Myfanwy attacked Lisa just there, and a little further off, in the water, Jack almost lost Ianto the first time.  
Owen, Tosh and Ianto. Somewhere down on the deeper levels, in the vast expanse of the hub, their laughter still echoes.

This city is filled with ghosts.

Or perhaps it is Jack who is haunted.

It's not something that incapacitates him.  
Not even something that interrupts his day, usually.

In movies they're always something dramatic, a distinct trigger, a zoom into the character's panicked face, possibly a flashback scene to fill the viewer in on the when and how.

In real life, for Jack, there's no such thing. Panic attacks have accompanied him throughout his life.

He'd read a rift data report out loud to his team, and while he was still talking, his breaths would become shorter. There'd be a tightness in his chest, and he'd need to inhale more frequently to get fewer words out.  
Luckily for him, the reports were usually short enough for him to power through them and sit back down, let Gwen take over with the next steps while he caught his breath.

Maybe he'd write something per hand, say a signature on some paper work, but his hand would shake too much to keep the pen steady, and his vision blurred.

It gets worse when people are watching.  
He hates when they ask if he's alright, and the more they ask, the more flippant his replies get.

The full-blown panic rarely happens when he's out in the field, and doesn't seem to be connected to anything. It's a stumble of the heart, a lurch of the stomach, and suddenly his bodily functions get derailed until he calms himself back down. Deep breaths, grounding methods.

Imagining himself on a rooftop, or better yet, standing on one, feel the wind blow into his face and through his hair. Looking out onto the city he lives to protect.

Or extending his hand with a wide, trademark grin. "Hello. I'm Captain Jack Harkness."  
_This is me, right here, right now, and this is your hand squeezing mine. I'm okay._

Then there's the nightmares.

"Could really use another coffee."

Not like the caffeine does anything to keep him awake, but it's a comfort after a short and mostly sleepless night.

 _"You could stay."_  
Any stranger will do.  
*  
_"Why don't you stay the night?"_  
*  
_"Hey.~"_  
*  
_"So, your place or mine?"_  
*  
_"Can I take you home?"_  
*  
_"I'm Captain Jack Harkness."_

_I'm immortal._

_I'm Torchwood._

_And trauma is a fact of life._

It's immortality that teaches you how short the human life span is.  
Sometimes all he can do is sit with his pain, a dull ache which he has long since given up on expressing.

But then he sees them out there, surviving. There's always another friendly face. Another good person who wants to do the right thing. Another Gwen Cooper, another Andy Davidson, another Martha Jones. And there's the most important similarity between Torchwood and the Doctor: Whether you run or stay, you should never walk alone.

Not for long.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you need a hand to hold. And once you do, you never let go.

This city is reaching out its hand, and Jack is holding tight.


End file.
